Making Nice
by alwaysflying
Summary: How exactly did Maureen become Maureen? Why, with the help of seven valuable influences, of course.
1. Prologue

I'm Maureen Johnson. But then, if you didn't already know that, you've obviously been living in a hole.

And if you know me personally, you'll know that I'm what some people call bohemian, and others call free-spirited, liberal, or sometimes hippie. Well, whatever. I don't like labels anyway. Can't I just be Maureen?

I'm an actress, but you probably knew that too.

Sometimes when I'm thinking about who I am while I'm pretending to be someone else, looking up into bright lights and the faces of strangers, I wonder how I became who I am. I know myself – I know I wasn't always this way, and I know that I was once even… dare I say it? Conventional. So how did I turn out to be me? How did I go from Maureen Lillith Johnson of Hicksville, Long Island to Alphabet City's own Mo Johnson, who gets flowers from her loyal bohemian supporters whenever they can afford tickets to these high-quality performances? (Note the sarcasm.)

No – actually, if these were the upscale productions my parents think they are, it would make more sense. I mean, I was raised upper-class in a Long Island community – an only child, with a lawyer father and a therapist mother. Anyone would expect I'd go into some high-paying career. Who would suspect that I'd be here at one in the morning, twenty-three years old, gazing lovingly into the stage lights of a smoky lot home to hundreds of homeless Manhattans?

How did I go from spoiled brat to bohemian princess?

The truth is that I don't know. I can guess, though, and my guesses can be pretty fucking accurate when I think hard enough. So my best prediction would be that I turned out this way through the influences of different people. Well, a ton of people – too many to name, really – but seven in particular.

Can't you guess?

They go by the names of Angel Dumott Schunard, Mimi Marquez, Joanne Jefferson, Mark Cohen, Benjamin Coffin III, Roger Davis, and Thomas Collins.

Mom and Dad are the only ones who don't know about my current world and lifestyle. According to them, my friends are Angel Schunard, an anatomically female fashion model (at her own request); Mimi Marquez, a professional ballet dancer; Joanne Jefferson, a lawyer in a firm specializing in corporate law; Mark Cohen, my adoring boyfriend (my oh my, aren't Mom and Dad behind the times!); Benjamin Coffin III, owner of many of Manhattan's most prestigious buildings; Roger Davis, still the same musician Mom and Dad knew back when I was in high school; Thomas Collins, the anarchist teenager they remember from my high school days – now as far as they know, a philosophy professor at Barnard University.

It's not that I'm ashamed of my friends. No, far from it. (To tell you the truth, I'm much more ashamed of my parents than I am of my _real _family.) It's just that I'm sparing Mom and Dad's feelings. You know – telling them what they want to hear, which is that their baby is now perfectly financially stable, having the grand old time she always wanted – shopping, cruising down the highway in a red convertible, and changing boyfriends more than underwear. Well, except for that last one, because Mom and Dad are still safe in the (inaccurate) knowledge that I have been dating Mark for over a year. He still pales when I say this, either because he still likes me and thinks I'm teasing him (probable) or because he is really, really disgusted by the thought of dating me. (Doubtful. Have you seen my ass?)

Anyway. Back to reality.

Did you know that the sound of applause makes a person temporarily believe that they really _are _who they're pretending to be? And it takes a moment to just clear your head and think – _no. Wait. I'm not that girl_. Or guy, as the case may be.

So the same goes for me. When I hear people calling me by a name Mom and Dad would never have allowed me to go by – "Mo," for example, or some mock-derogatory term referring to my lesbianism – I forget who I used to be. So just so I don't do that, let's take a look back at who I was.

And that, my friends, began in sophomore year of high school. A certain student was in his third attempt at passing senior year, and when he caught my eye, some kind of chemistry happened. Maybe it was destiny, or maybe I had something stuck between my teeth – who knows? All I remember now, in my intoxicated state, is that our eyes met. Later – after this performance, after the "party" at the loft that's really just an excuse to get drunk – I'll remember the rest. For now? I'm just Mo. As for who I was before, well, sometimes you just have to give someone time to remember how exactly she first went about making nice.


	2. Collins

_October 23, 1982_

Dressed all in purple, she prances down the halls. I wonder if she knows how ridiculous she looks, sliding down the odd banister with her skirt hiking up and boys slapping her rear end. It's not as though anybody really appreciates her presence, but everyone likes having someone to make fun of. This sophomore is an ideal candidate, and even as she walks through the halls, people comment. Gossip follows her everywhere she goes. From what I've heard, her name's Maureen, but even that is unreliable. It takes a lot for real information to make its way from the sophomores to the seniors, and even more for it to get to one sole senior, a loner, disliked by many for his color, his sexuality, and the fact that this is his third attempt at senior year. Going for four, Collins? I'm asked. Well, it'd be nice.

This girl, though, makes her way through the halls as though she has no idea what people say about her. I almost admire that in her, except that ignorance… well, it's poison, at our age. If she doesn't know what the rumors say about her, chances are they'll get worse. When I was in sophomore year, I was already well-versed in these things. It's almost tragic to know that eventually, her heart'll be broken when she catches a snippet of ill-timed gossip, or a rumor in which she is a slut. Somehow, I can't see this girl taking these things well. I almost want to protect her.

It's not romantic, be sure of that. I like _guys_. Girls are fine, but just as friends. Which appears to be what I'm looking for with this Maureen-creature. Or maybe she's really not Maureen. For all the reliable information _I _have, her name could be Jane. I hope it's not, though. Then I'd feel even worse for her. Nothing against Janes, that is, but really – this wild-haired free spirit could never be a Jane. Maureen. That fits pretty well. I can see her as a Maureen. But then again, this is coming from a nineteen-year-old who can't even see _himself _as Tom – always Collins. Perhaps I'm not as good a guesser as I thought.

Today, she's wearing a purple skirt that spins as she twirls through the halls, and a nearly-transparent lavender shawl tied expertly around her upper body, serving as a shirt. Purple appears to be her favorite color, and I'm fine with it. I'm rather preferential to brown, but everyone's entitled to their opinions. Purple's a color lots of girls like – it might not even be her, but an attempt to conform.

Wow. The fact that I even managed to use that girl and _conform _togetheris kind of absurd. Anyone can see that she doesn't care about conforming. I mean, she _walks up to people and serenades them_. And not with an ounce of tact, either. If she doesn't like someone's hair, she clearly has no qualms about singing some song about a bad hair day. She has yet to approach me with that soprano of hers, but should she ever decide to, I'd love to hear what she has to say about me. Ahem – what she has to _sing _about me.

As if having read my thoughts, here she comes, dancing down the hallway. I meet her eyes, which are the color of cinnamon, and she scans my face for a split second before moving on. I watch her, transfixed at how utterly unforgettable she is, and stick my head into my locker to hide my blush. I don't like her. I'm _gay_. But she seems like a great person nonetheless, and I'd love to know her.

My chance comes one day after school, when I'm waiting for it to be dark before I walk home – just don't ask, okay? – and a certain brunette strolls by. "You walking?" she asks me brightly, looking for a companion. I nod wordlessly, speechless for the first time in my life, and she snatches up my wrist and starts ambling along with me. "I'm Maureen. I've seen you in the halls."

"Collins," I reply. "Tom Collins. You can call me Collins."

She smiles charmingly. "I'm honored," she tells me with a sweet smile. "So, where do you live?" I tell her, and she shrieks with glee. "I'm going in that direction, and then some. I can walk you."

This being my first encounter with a girl before – _not _romantic, of course – I don't know what to say. Are girls supposed to walk guys to their houses? Isn't it usually the other way around? But of course, gender roles have never been a big concern of mine, because if a guy can be the submissive partner in bed, he by all means can be walked to his house. Or in this case, apartment. "Great," I tell Maureen.

"Hey, what grade you in?" she asks me, giving me a curious look.

I blush. "Senior. But I was held back – twice, actually. So I'll be twenty before graduation – that is, _if _I graduate this year."

"That sucks," she replies. "What'd you do? I can't see you flunking."

I grin. "I didn't, actually. Just some 'severe disciplinary problems,' to quote our lovely principal. You know, I'm really honored she takes time out of her _busy _day to yell at _me _about whatever shit _I've _pulled lately. You'd think that after running naked through the halls, she'd just want me out of the school, but apparantly not." With an even bigger grin, I add, "Maybe she just likes watching."

Maureen giggles. "Maybe, but I had her pegged as a dyke."

I almost want to ask her if she'd have a problem with someone who _was_, but something gives the the feeling that this is not the time, and it'd seem bizarre in this situation. So I don't. Instead, I ask her, "You're a sophomore, right?"

"Ugh," she groans. "Don't remind me."

I chuckle. "I remember my sophomore year," I tell her, and then frown. "Okay, sorry, I sounded really old there for a minute."

She laughs. "Nah, it's okay. I like older men."

_Fuck_.

When she sees my alarmed expression (obviously not as hidden as well as I'd hoped), she sighs. "Shit," she mumbles, and before I can ask her what's wrong, she explains, "I bet this kid that you weren't gay. Are you?"

"Yes," I reply, because I have no problem with telling people that, and because I highly doubt she'd bet anyone any such thing. No offense to her or anything, but I don't think anyone likes her. Except me, that is. And of course, just as a friendly little disclaimer, it's _platonic_. In case I didn't assure myself of that enough times already.

She sighs. "Could you pretend you aren't?" she asks with a playful smile. "I could take a picture, and then I wouldn't owe Matt fifty bucks."

"Kind of stupid to bet fifty bucks on someone being gay," I chide her. She giggles.

"I need the money," she protests lightly, and without waiting for my permission, she leans up and brushes a nonexistent leaf out of my hair. Feeling hopelessly awkward, I take a step back.

"If you're going to do this," I tell her weakly, knowing that it would be futile to attempt to stop her, "please, for god's sake, don't make it romantic."

So holding an ancient camera to the side, she swiftly presses her lips to mine. I start to back up after that, hoping she won't ask for any more unbearable favors, and assume that she'll let me carry on home now, without the presence of a girl who obviously has feelings for me. It's just weird.

"Oh," she says mournfully, "I don't know if I got the picture, see? The flash wasn't on, and it's kind of dark already."

With a loud groan, I let her torture me again, and then inquire – perfectly politely – "Can I please just go now?"

Maureen giggles. "Silly," she tells me, "didn't I say I'd walk you home?"

For a second, I feel incredibly self-centered, and I double-take. "Oh," I say abashedly. How the _hell _am I going to explain this? I mumble, "I thought you just did it to build up to, um, to that kiss thing."

"That kiss thing?" she laughs. "No. I told you, it was a bet. Although it'd be nice, if you swung that way, but… what could I do? Anyways, can you move on, or do you insist on acting like it meant something?"

Relieved, I allow her to lace her arm in mine as we walk towards my house.

Girls? They're fine as friends.

And it's a comfort to know that friendship seems to be Maureen's intention.

"I'll call you," she promises, chatting idly as we walk. "Here's my number – " here she presses a sweaty Post-It into my hand – "and you'll call me maybe twice a day, or three times if you really have to, but don't sound desperate and don't let my parents think you're my boyfriend. Unless you decide to switch sides, in which case you should definitely let me know." With a wicked grin, she claps me on the shoulder. Realizing that we're on my doorstep, I slowly step out of her grasp.

"Sure thing, Maureen," I tell her with a roll of my eyes. "You don't talk enough, anyone ever told you that?"

Yeah. This is going to be the start of a pretty interesting friendship, to say the least.


	3. Roger

_October 30, 1982_

When Collins told me there was someone he wanted me to meet, I wasn't expecting _this_.

I was expecting another boyfriend of his, one of those oddly effeminite eyeliner-wearing guys, who, according to Collins, is only being used for his extensive supply of marijuana. (From what I hear, however, their nightly gatherings stretch late into the night, long after the evening's pot has been all used up.)

So you can imagine my surprise when an auburn-haired girl with great breasts snuck up behind Collins in a practically _see-through _shirt and watching me with these sexy brown eyes. I was _not _expecting this. "Playing for our team now, Col?" I ask him casually, pulling the bottom of my shirt down so the girl doesn't think I'm exactly as rude as I actually am.

She notices. "I know _you _are," she tells me, grinning, and I blush and mumble something that in some universe resembles an apology. She's gorgeous and I'm giddy. And believe me, Roger Davis is _never _giddy.

"No, Roger, I'm _not_," Collins tells me. "This is my friend Maureen. She's a sophomore." Turning back to the girl, he explains, "Captain Crude over here is Roger Davis, a sophomore like you. He thinks he's all that, just 'cause he sings pretty well, writes music and wears tight pants."

I grin at the reasonably accurate description of myself. "You forgot my unmeasurable dating history," I shoot back.

"No, I didn't," Collins retorts dryly. "If I thought it existed, I'd be happy to share it with our lovely lady over here, but the fact is that sixteen-year-old Roger is, in fact, likely to never lose his virginity." He shoots Maureen a look as if to check that she isn't offended, but she looks more amused than anything. In an attempt to entertain her, I playfully kick Collins in the knee. It's great to be tall, even if the person I'm kicking is just as tall as I am and definitely stronger.

Then again, Maureen is pretty tall herself, with the tops of her chocolate-colored curls reaching my eyes. That's pretty good for a sophomore, especially since I know _seniors _whose heads only reach Collins' shoulders.

Seeing the two of them stand together, I feel something that must be the exact opposite of déjà vu. I realize what it is almost instantly: I have never seen Collins beside a girl other than his mother and sister.

Tom Collins is not usually one to hang out with girls. He's socially awkward – but then again, I've caught flashes of this girl in the hallways, and she's no more skilled in the department of social prowess than he is. Thankfully, I've managed to resist this social idiocy, even despite being Collins' best friend for over two years. I've been his best friend since I was in eighth grade, lurking behind the middle school and smoking, looking over at this weird kid behind the high school doing the same.

So I know two things about Maureen. One: That she must be incredibly interesting, to be drawn to Collins, of all people. And two: That – oh my god – she must be one special girl, to draw Collins to _her_, considering the fact that for all my insistance, he hasn't socialized with a single girl whose last name isn't Collins since long before I met him.

So with the three of us – dramatic, flamboyant Maureen Johnson; devious, intelligent Tom Collins; artistic, romantic Roger Davis – there is a particularly strong group of friends. Maureen doesn't feel like a newcomer, nor do I feel uncomfortable in her presence. No, she just seems to be a third part to the twosome Collins and I have shared for the past two years.

We've just met today. I don't know if she's going to be the new best friend of Collins and me, or a close friend, or anything. I know that she's hot, and I know that she's sweet and friendly and really interesting, and I know that I'll buy lunch for the three of us if we do Drive-Through.

So we do. We hop into Collins' car, skidding through our suburban dungeon at the forbidden speed of eighty-four miles per hour. With Collins driving, I manage to grab the front seat for myself, but Maureen insists on using my lap as a seat. I don't know what it is with her and other people's bodies, but she seems to have this thing where she's always touching people. I don't get it, but I sure don't mind when she plucks a cigarette from my mouth and takes a drag from it, smirking and telling me, "I like guys who smoke."

"You," Collins tells her as he merges onto the highway (due to the fact that there's no point in driving _anywhere _if we aren't going to leave town), "need to chill."

But if there's any change in her personal temperature, it's in the opposite direction of _chill _– Maureen snakes her hand up her own leg and meets my eyes seductively. Movies tell me what I should do next: fumble through an excuse to get out of the car and press Maureen against the wall of some shitty gas station. But considering the fact that I'm having a free lap dance, I don't move at all, watching her mildly as she runs her fingers down her neckline and chest.

"Okay, yeah," says Collins, still not taking his eyes off the road. "If you two are going to do it, that's fine, but please, Roger, do _not _ejaculate in my car."

"Hey," I protest, "it already looks like shit. Nothing I can do is gonna change that."

"If anyone could make this look like more of a shithole, Roger, it's you," Collins promises me. Then he checks the car clock and adds, "Oh, and look that that. You two have known each other for a half hour, and you still haven't kissed yet?" He winks at Maureen, leaving me completely bewildered until I feel Maureen's lips on my cheek.

She explains, "I can't reach your mouth," and leaves it at that.

We pull up at some fast-food Drive-Through, and Maureen hisses sharply. "What?" I ask.

"I'm gonna get _fat_," she whines, pinching her nonexistent fat around her stomach. I bat her hands away, speechless, and point out that the next time I hear a girl say that, no matter how hot she is, I'm just going to have to walk away. Maureen just groans and wails, "You don't understand."

"Sure he does," Collins interjects. "He's a performance artist, just like you, except I don't think any music sucks as badly as his does. – Sorry, Roger." I punch him, but know that he really loves my lyrics, so I just ignore it from there as he continues, "So yeah, he knows all about appearances and shit. But does that stop him from having his dad's double chin? _Nope_."

Again, I punch him, and self-consciously reach a hand up to my chin. Maureen giggles. "You aren't fat, Roger," she assures me, "even though I am."

Just because she is a very hot girl does not mean I can't hit her. It's because she probably hits as hard as I do that I can't hit her, so I don't. "You _aren't _fat, Maureen," Collins and I insist in unison, and as if to prove it to her, he pulls up by the Drive-Through speakers and orders a large cheeseburger, two large veggieburgers with cheese, a soda, and three orders of fries. Maureen waves her hands around in protest, but we don't listen to her.

"Wait – are you a vegetarian?" I ask her in shock once we have our food. I guess I didn't notice the _two _veggieburgers Collins ordered until I actually saw hers. And I've definitely never met anyone so hot who doesn't eat meat.

She blushes. "Yeah…"

"Hey, that's cool," I tell her. "I totally respect that." Sinking my teeth into my cheeseburger, I explain (in a muffled tone, of course, around the meat and cheese and who-knows-what-else), "I'd try it, but these are just too good, you know?"

With a grin, Maureen tells me, "Those were my favorite food before I went veggie, I swear. My uncle, though, he's a total vegan, and he can make a veggieburger that tastes _exactly _like the real thing. They're so addicting – I'll bring you one some time, if you want."

"Sure," I tell her, already not believing her. "Five bucks says I can tell the difference."

Collins, his feet up on the steering wheel now that we're parked in a parking space, informs me that "You really can't. They're that good."

"Yeah, but this is Roger Davis, the Meat Machine." When Maureen gives me a curious look, I escape humiliation by winking and telling her, "In more ways than one."

With a roll of his eyes, Collins sets his burger down on his lap and announces, "Because of that, I don't think I can eat anymore, Roger. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," I tell him. "If anyone in this car could stand to lose some weight, it's you, buddy."

His hand flies out to smack me, but I catch it in my fist and force it back against his chest. We have wrestling matches at home all the time, mainly because we're guys and need to get rid of our extra testosterone, but never in a car in the presence of a girl. Somehow, though, I suspect Maureen might be willing to participate sometime. _Without_ Collins, because I think it'd just get kind of messy at that point.

"Hey, Maureen?" I ask casually.

"Yeah?"

Faking a blush, I mumble, "You're kind of squashing me. I mean – not that you're fat, or anything. It's just, you're sitting on an organ I need to reproduce."

When she shifts a bit, I glance down, and _oh, shit_.

"You know what, Collins?" Maureen says cheerfully, saving the day. "I think me and Roger are gonna go take a walk over by that building over there, 'kay?"

Collins rolls his eyes. "I don't think you guys are out to get food, or anything," he tells me dryly, pressing a five into my hand, "but on your way back, stop and pick up some smokes, okay?"

"Will do," I tell him, and break into a run with Maureen hot on my heels.

God, she's hot. When we reach the building we intend to make out on, she surprises me by taking the initiative and shoving _me _against the wall.

Well, hey. Any girl who can do that is probably decent in bed, right?

We're gonna be friends, and we're gonna be together, and it's all gonna be great.

At least, just as long as Collins is waiting in the car.


	4. Benny

_June 21, 1985_

It seems both symbolic and unbelievable that I met her on the first day of summer in the first year I was officially an adult. So yeah, she was a bit – okay, maybe a lot – younger than me, what with my being twenty-one and her being eighteen, but she was legal and she had a nice ass.

As far as I understand, she was Collins and Roger's friend in high school. When they all graduated, they needed a place to stay, and Maureen and Roger hung out in their suburban hell while Collins ran around the city looking for an apartment. He got kicked out of his house, actually, not for being gay (like I would have if _I _were gay, which I'm definitely not) but for keeping it a secret for an obscenely long time. Apparently his free-spirited parents were offended by his lack of trust in them.

So Collins, who graduated a few years late because of some behavioral problems, tried to hit on me in a bar in the West Village. (He said later that he was just drunk and couldn't tell me from the hot redhead next to me, who even I could tell was hot even though he was _male_, but I think that's a crock of shit and he probably knew it too.) So, I offered for him to stay with me in my apartment, and he was really thrilled, even though I made him sleep on the couch. When I woke up at around two the next day, there were two more people sitting with him, and he announced that everyone would pay a portion of the rent. I had no say in it, but hey, they were kids and I couldn't afford the whole rent anyway.

Maureen and Roger. Those are their names. These two eighteen-year-old kids from the suburbs. And even though they're artsy and rebellious (as far as suburban kids go), they didn't fit in right away. Mo and Roger were making out all the time, Roger was dishwashing at some shitty diner so he could eventually buy a guitar, and Collins was printing out fake papers on someone's computer that made it look like he graduated from college and had a teaching degree. Oh, and Maureen – she was singing at Ellen's Stardust Diner by Times Square every night, saving her tips for who-knows-what. She was ambitious from the start, sauntering by the tables of people who she thought might be directors or producters and flashing her breasts at them. On the nights when she didn't come home, Collins and I speculated that she was either sleeping with people she met at work or just wandering around bars and all-night theaters.

Well, today is only a week since I've met her. So I can't claim to know every fucking thing about her, but I know her well enough to understand a few necessary things about her. Like the fact that she's pretty good about adapting to her surroundings – unlike some other girls I know, she doesn't bitch about where people put their shit, and she doesn't insist on having her own room. She shares a room with Roger, and that's it. They can fuck all they want, but she's pretty good about keeping it to a low enough volume for me to bring home whoever I want – usually girls that resemble Maureen in the face and eyes. When Maureen wakes up in the mornings, she leaves the coffee pot on the lukewarm "hot" plate and doesn't make sarcastic comments to the Mo Johnson look-alikes until after they're gone.

So Maureen and I get along pretty well.

It's Roger's nineteenth birthday, but he looks older. Collins insists upon taking him out drinking and not wanting the rest of us "kids" along, even though I _am _of age. So I have nothing to do. A certain brunette is equally bored, I know. So when she approaches me with a deck of cards in her hand, I inquire pleasantly, "Poker?"

She shrugs. "Not enough people," she tells me.

Which is fine, because at that moment, two extremely intoxicated loftmates of ours fumble their way into the apartment. Maureen hoists Roger up and shoves him into a chair, declaring that "We're playing poker. Actually, since you guys are drunk, it's strip poker." She smirks as Collins shoves his way onto a chair and settles down between myself and Maureen. "So, yeah." She deals out the cards expertly, with the hand movements of one who has been dealing cards all her life. As her violet nails flick cards under my clasped palms, I'm impressed. I'd say as such, but it would sound stalker-esque and weird. Besides, she likes Roger. (Not that that's ever stopped me before.)

It isn't my fault that Maureen sucks at having a poker face, and it isn't my fault that Maureen doesn't really wear a lot of clothes. Therefore, it isn't my fault that after three rounds, she is down to her mostly-transparent bra and underwear, waiting in the obscene heat between rounds while Roger vomits in the bathroom. (Turns out he drank one too many glasses of Jose Cuervo.) So I'm right next to her, and of the maybe hundred people who have seen Maureen Jonhson naked, I'm probably the first to be so blatanly teased. Her legs hang apart like that, and god, I could go into so many details if my brain was capable of putting into words the flowery lyrics that Roger is capable of.

Then again, there's a reason I'm not Roger. And the kid's eighteen, but he gets this gorgeous girl, so he must have _something_. Maybe I could get it out of him while he's this drunk.

No, okay, focus. Maybe I could scoot my chair closer to the edge of the table and let Maureen _not _see what my jeans are hiding. But she's pretty astute, and according to Roger's detailed description of his and Maureen's first meeting, she spotted _his _erection on Day One. Maybe Roger's is just bigger than mine, though, and that would explain a lot –

"Hey, Benny?" comes a cheerful voice from beside me.

"Yeah?" I ask, expecting the worst.

Maureen, bright and smiling as can be, inquires, "Are you planning on jumping me anytime soon?"

I blush. Maybe color doesn't appear on my cheeks as well as it does on Roger and Maureen's pale faces, and that can only be a blessing. "No, I'm not," I tell her almost mournfully, and when she sees my almost sad eyes, she grins and informs me that Roger's no hotter than I am, particularly now that he's puking his guts (and Jose Cuervo) up in the bathroom.

"Well, thanks," I mumble, and I don't know what else to say.

She giggles. "You want me to get the Smirnoff?"

I acquiesce, just as aware as she is that there's probably going to be at least thirty minutes before the next round begins, considering the fact that I think I hear snoring coming from the couch – where Collins is. When a bottle of faintly blue vodka is set beside me on the table, I take a swig from it and offer some to Maureen before she can take her own.

"You know," I tell her, "it's weird that a gay guy like Collins managed to get such a gorgeous friend."

Wiping her lips on her arm, Maureen tells me, "I thought he was straight at first. Made up this bet where supposedly, my friend thought Collins was gay and I needed a picture of him kissing a girl in order to prove so-and-so wrong. He should've known – back in sophomore year, before I met him and Roger, I didn't _have _any friends." But before I can pity her and share _my_ high school trauma, Maureen adds, "You know what, though? If he was straight, he wouldn't be half as interesting."

"Well, that's definitely true," I drawl. "And Roger, you know, would make life so much more interesting if he were gay."

"For you, maybe," she replies, not missing a beat. "Well – when you say things like that while staring at Roger's girlfriend's _breasts_, you know, it's hard for me to take you serious."

"Roger's puking," I inform her. My eyes dancing in a way that I might be able to convince her I'm kidding in case she's horrified, I suggest, "You wanna… you know, bedroom's over there…"

Maureen takes my hand in hers and tells me, laying her other hand on my shoulder, "Benjamin. You are sexy, don't get me wrong, but you are also tactless." When I gape at her, she explains in a near-whisper, "You'd think that you'd at least wait until Roger's _out of the apartment _before propositioning his girl, huh?"

Abashed, I tilt my head and strain my ears. "Uh-_huh_," I muse for a moment, and then jerk my head towards the bathroom door. "I think I just heard a head hit the ground. Think he passed out?"

Maureen swings her leg over the chair and prances into the bathroom. "Sure enough," she calls back to me, "he's unconscious."

We make our way into my bedroom (still mine, even if Collins stays in it when I stay at girls' apartments) and while I fumble with the lock that's been broken since three tenants ago, Maureen does something that involves the rustle of clothing. By the time I turn around, a completely naked girl is spread-eagled on my bed, and were I to go into the details _here_, I'd have cops banging on the door to check her driver's license and make sure she's really eighteen – which she is. Even if she doesn't look it, she _must _be, because no way could anyone underage manage the sultriness that Maureen pulls off without a hitch.

Sure, I've been with girls before, in case that's not already obvious. I've been with just about every hot girl in Alphabet City, and probably in Greenwich and Chelsea too, although there aren't that many straight girls in those neighborhoods. Before I make my way over to any other subdistricts of Manhattan, however, I should probably check out this mysterious suburb that Maureen's from. Because _oh my god_, the girl is fucking incredible.

After, we lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I throw on a pair of sweatpants, but Maureen obviously has no modesty – either that, or the seventy-nine degree weather is hitting her really hard. New York, for those ignoramuses that don't know, has obscenely hot summers and unbelievably cold winters. This first day of summer is already boiling, cooking us like turkeys in our un-air-conditioned East Village loft.

I know girls like Maureen. She's the kind of girl I fuck all the time, with her dramatic actions but no romanticized thoughts. She knows about the world, even if she's from the suburbs, and understands _exactly _what she is getting into by growing up. She also knows how to use her beauty to make herself look _sexy; _the girl could pass for a real beauty, but instead, she wants to be _hot_, wants to turn men on rather than cook up flowery thoughts about relationships.

So I'm not getting any romantic notions about a relationship. None of these girls _ever _want a relationship. They want a quick screw and hard lips against their own, prodding their tongues until their makeup blurs enough for them to look thoroughly fucked when they go home to meet their boyfriends. And there are guys like this too, the ones that flex their muscles and wear pants that are tight (but not quite tight enough to scream _I'm gay_) and wear dark eyeliner while dancing in clubs. Those are the guys like Roger, who can maintain a relationship if absolutely necessary and can be loyal for just about _ever_ as long as the girl is a good fuck and quiet about her affairs.

I'm not like them in every way. I lay low, bringing girls home from bars – never clubs – and found our one-night-stands on not boredom or attraction, but _craving_. Maureen seems compatible with just about every guy that fucks well, so I'm secure in this bed, arm touching hers, praying that Roger's not going to wake up until long after I leave for work. (It's probable; he's never been drunk before, and according to Maureen, most first-time drinking experiences have the victim out like a light until long past noon.)

This girl is sexy. She's mischevious, gorgeous, and sultry. She trails her hands down her body with the passion and lust of someone who knows how to use her body. She is amazing, and if not entirely trustworthy, she's at least sweet and friendly and charming. A behind-the-scenes affair with a roommate never quite crossed my mind, but there's nothing wrong with one, is there?

Except that Roger punches pretty hard, so I might want to at least be cautious.

Around the age of twenty, most guys don't give teenagers another glance. Maureen is eighteen, but god, if every other guy in the world knew how amazing she can be, there's no way I'd have a chance with her.

Thank god for human ignorance, because I think this affair is exactly what I need right now.

And maybe she needs it too. Roger's posessive and jealous and angry a lot, and I think it's about time Little Miss Girlfriend-Of-A-Rock-Star had some _fun _drama in her life.


	5. Mark

_November 11, 1985_

Unless you have ever sat on the freezing streets of New York in November, starving and thirsty and desperate for company, you probably do not know how I feel right now.

Exactly seven days ago, I fled Scarsdale to escape my parents. Now, my first week in New York, I'm almost wishing I was back there. Sure, it's great to film stuff and see people with neon-colored hair, but when one is starving in the fucking _freezing _weather, it's more important to consider the essentials, like food, a heater, and a girlfriend.

So, seeing no recourse from the cold but to go inside somewhere, I spot a bar. Satisfied, I enter, settle on a stool, and finger the ninety-two cents in my pocket. It isn't enough for anything, not even a Bud, so I had just better hope I meet someone tonight who's willing to buy me a drink. When it appears not to be happening, I turn towards the door.

It isn't destiny, or anything, when I turn to face the entrance. I just want to see what asshole was letting the cold air in. So I begin swiveling around on my barstool, watching people enter and exit, feeling like a kid in a barber shop with a great liking for his long hair and the looming threat of a buzz-cut.

Then _she _walks in.

She's alone, that's the first thing I notice – that gorgeous, and alone! Confident and sexy and looking almost sad beneath her self-assured expression, she saunters up to the bar. I just can't take my eyes off her leather skirt, which might actually be vinyl because it doesn't make those weird noises.

Realizing that there are no barstools devoid of people apart from the one next to me, I shove my camera bag and coat into my lap from their former location on the stool. Now I'm less comfortable, but I can't think about that – just about _her_. "Go ahead," I offer, trying to look poised but suspecting that I really just look stupid. With a stony face but unwavering, gorgeous eyes, the girl settles herself on my former stool, legs crossed over one another, the triangle of her crotch in the best possible angle for me to zoom in. But my camera is in my bag, and telling or showing people what I do for a living seems too much like pouring my soul out to them, and I can't stand the thought of doing that. It's personal.

"Name?" she asks, voice unwavering, and I double-take. That is completely _not _a Manhattan accent. Most people don't notice these things, but I've observed enough people to know that this girl comes from Long Island. Suburbia. "I'm Maureen Johnson."

I manage to respond, "Mark Cohen."

She grins. "Westchester, huh?"

Ah. Perceptive. Most people in Scarsdale are completely oblivious to accents – at least, nearly imperceptible ones like these. Then again, maybe the city is different.

"Yeah, and how was Long Island?" I shoot back.

She looks delighted, although dramatically winces at the mention of her former home. I grin. "I won't tell if you don't," I tell her conspiratorially, and if I sound at all seductive, it's entirely unintentional, because I already know that I have no chance in the world with this girl.

She turns to the bartender. "A whiskey sour, please," she says, and then amends herself after a quick glance at me, "Two whiskey sours."

"I've never – "

She laughs. "I'm nineteen," she tells me softly, "and even _I _have."

"Twenty," I tell her quietly. "I'm twenty."

The bartender sets our drinks on the counter, and Maureen giggles. "You think I'm paying for these?" she teases him. "Come on, Collins, you know me better than that."

"Sure do," he responds, and digs out a wallet from his apron pocket. Aghast, I gape at them, and the bartender (Collins?) merely laughs. "Be careful with your new meat, Maureen, he looks greener than the grass they just planted over in Tompson Square."

I must look flat-out horrified, because Maureen turns to me and giggles. "Don't worry, Marky, I have a boyfriend," she says, which either crushes me or relieves me or both.

"I know your pain," Collins tells me somberly. "She's hot. I know that. And I'm gay."

I feel like I'm watching a ping-pong match, just the way I did earlier today when a homeless man accosted this teenage girl with huge sunglasses on the street earlier, demanding that he give her one of the many fifty-dollar bills in her purse. (The girl complied, of course, handing him the bill and dashing away to thoroughly cleanse her hands.) I found it incredibly amusing then, however, and now it is less entertaining, considering the fact that I'm actually involved, socializing this time. It's harder to socialize than to observe.

"What's his name?" I inquire casually.

Simultaneously, Maureen and Collins respond, "Roger."

"Roger," I repeat, rolling it around on my tongue. "Roger."

Our abandoned drinks on the bar tempt me, so I cautiously reach out for one. Maureen, catching the hint, takes her own and lifts it up. "To New York!" she chirps, and takes a long sip. I follow shortly afterward, and to my horror, discover that alchohol is far from the poison Mom and Dad always claimed it was; in fact, it's awesome. I down the entire glass in a single gulp, then turn to Collins.

"Could I get away with not paying?" I ask, drumming my fingers on the bar. Already, Maureen inspires me to attempt deeds I would never even consider back home.

With a grumble, Collins disappears behind a drink machine and returns again with my drink. "Did you spit in it?" I ask cautiously. He smirks.

"You'll never know if I did, would you?"

I suggest, hiding revulsion, that my drink looks pinker than last time, and did he put in anything – like blood, maybe? Maureen and Collins exchange a quick glance, which of course I notice, but nothing is said.

After maybe twenty-five minutes of conversation, a shrill buzz rings through the room. With a loud sigh, Collins throws his apron off of him, only pausing to remove his wallet from it, and then hoists himself over the bar. "Out tonight, Mo, or back to the loft?" he asks, directing it, of course, at Maureen.

Maureen gives me a sudden look, considering something. She murmurs something to Collins, and even though I am typically able to read lips, she isn't facing me and the bar is far too loud for me to hear a single word. Collins shrugs in response to whatever it is Maureen said, and the two of them turn to me, surveying me as though I were a zoo exhibit.

"Go ahead," Collins says at last, and turns to Maureen.

"You just moved here, right?" she asks me. I nod, and have the tiniest suspicion of what she might ask me. "You got a place to stay yet?"

I merely shake my head, unless the alleyways count as a place to stay. It isn't the most pleasant thing in the world, sleeping in an alley, but at least it's not the actual sidewalk. If it ever comes to that, I'll go back to Scarsdale.

"Collins and I live with Roger and this guy Benny over in an apartment on Eleventh between A and B," she tells me. "If you can find some way to pay a sixth of the rent, you can stay."

I grin. "And how much would that be?"

Mentally calculating, it takes Maureen a minute before she responds, "Ninety a month. Gets a lot cheaper when it's not just one person, I guess, but I've never lived alone."

"Neither have I," I tell her, and she looks taken aback.

Collins just swings an arm over my shoulder. "You'll fit in great with us," he tells me. "Me, Maureen, and Roger just graduated in June."

"No shit."

"Yeah," Maureen says brightly. "Oh, fuck," she says, as if only just now realizing something. "You okay sleeping on the couch?"

Collins interjects, "We'll alternate." He explains to me, "I sleep on the couch every night Benny's not out with some girl, but we can switch off. Every other night kind of thing."

I nod. All I can think about now is the fact that I've never shared an apartment with anyone before – never even lived in one, actually, as Scarsdale is an upper-middle class suburb, and there aren't apartment buildings there – especially a girl as pretty as Maureen, who probably isn't modest enough not to walk around in these kinds of vinyl skirts.

Before I know it, we're already at this apartment, and there are six flights of stairs before we reach what must be Maureen's apartment. She slides the door open to reveal a pair of guys my age, sitting at a table without shirts on, playing what must be poker.

Oh. One of them isn't wearing pants.

"Hey, Rog," Maureen says brightly, and leans over to kiss a bleached-blonde on the lips. When they break apart, she gestures to me and says, "This is Mark. Rent's down to ninety now, guys."

Roger looks up, puzzled. "It was one-thirty-five this morning."

"This morning we didn't have Mark living with us," Maureen says, as if it settles the matter, kicking off her heels. They land on a couch that is laden with hundreds of other objects, one of which looks like a dildo from my location all the way across the room. Oh, god, what have I gotten myself into?

Roger, who is clad only in a pair of socks with ducks on them, approaches me. "Roger Davis," he says. "I guess I'm your new roommate."

"Yeah," I mumble. "Mark Cohen."

"So I've heard," he replies. "Oh, and this is Benny, by the way," he adds, gesturing to the black guy seated across from him at the table.

"Hey," we say in unison. I turn towards the couch and glance at Collins.

With a deep, exaggerated sigh, my new roommate gestures to it. "Go for it, Mark," he says tiredly. "I'm probably gonna play a round with you guys, too," he informs Benny and Roger, who merely make space for him at the table.

"Me too," says Maureen, and before I know it, I'm seated among them as well, squeezed between Maureen and Roger.

I've only just met her, but I can tell that there's nobody like her in Scarsdale, or maybe anywhere else, either.


	6. Joanne

_September 15, 1989_

One of the most pleasurable things in the world is strolling through the park in late summer or early autumn, relishing a warm breeze and wondering how this amazing three-month reprieve from the chilly air can only happen so infrequently, and for so short a time.

I know what lies ahead of me. I know that soon enough, I'll have to buy a heater and keep warm by draping my coat over me as I relax in my living room. I know I'm going to have to buy leather gloves and a hat and a scarf, because when I don't do that, I feel fake. Cheap. As if I'm not a lawyer and can't afford the better things. And I know that my co-workers and clients watch me, wondering where this _impostor _came from and demanding to know why I can't at least dress and act like them.

It isn't that I don't have the money. I do. I just don't like to spend it. Not because I'm a miser, but because I don't want to feel like I am living in the lap of luxury, growing accustomed to these comforts and benefits only to be deprived of them one day. I act lower-middle class even when I am not, because it is safer and prevents me from being let down, should one day in the future I lose my job and end up in a rat-infested apartment on East Ninth.

Why East Ninth?

I know someone who lives there.

She comes out of the apartment every day, sometimes choosing to descend the fire escape stairs rather than those leading to the front door. She walks with a manila envelope nearly every day, if not a manila folder, and has wildly different outfits and hairstyles for every day of the week. It's not so much a reflection on her personality, I suspect, as it is on the various different roles she auditions for; occasionally, should we happen to walk in the same direction (not that I'm _stalking _her, because I am _not_), I see her duck into a minuscule theater, her shoulders heavy enough to weigh down her entire body as she takes in a deep breath and enters. I wish her "good luck" under my breath sometimes, and occasionally she hears, and she thanks me.

Today I am actually going to an East Village theater, as it opened only recently and one of my friends at a neighboring firm to mine asked if I could deliver paperwork, since she had a meeting at the time that the forms were due. It is my lunch hour, so I consent to do so, and I haul the stack of papers over to the theater without much regret. After all, _she _is here today, in this very theater.

I enter. I spot her immediately, on the stage, in the middle of an audition. Immediately, I know why she tries out for so many different performances. Her voice is amazing, and she is beautiful, and the only flaw in her performance is the fact that her face screws up as she sings, as she tries to soak in all the emotion she possibly can, reacting _naturally _to a theatrical situation. I can see how this would be a problem for a director, but still – were it _my _play, I wouldn't hesitate to cast her as the lead.

After a few minutes of chaste conversation with the theater's manager, I am struck by an impulse. There are twenty-seven minutes left in my lunch hour – why not enjoy them? So I settle myself down in a seat in the audience and watch as _she _dances alongside others, the director scratching notes down on everyone's performances as toes clap against the stage. She stands out in my eyes, but then again, I am intentionally looking for her, and I cannot quite manage to watch the performance as a nonjudgmental spectator, because that is not what I am. I am watching her shining, and enjoying myself.

Twenty-six and a half minutes later, I decide I'm going to be late enough as it is, and get out of the seat with every intention of leaving, going to work, and making excuses about the tremendous line in some place supposedly serving "fast" food. As I get to my feet, however, something stops me. A single girl onstage swivels her head to face me, meets my eyes, and slowly jerks her chin downward.

Certain of her intended message, I sit.

The audition lasts another fifteen minutes, by which time I will be inexcusably late for work, but something compels me about this girl's performance, and I cannot bear to leave. Every time I stand, there she is again, looking straight at me, silently saying _No. Not yet. Wait_.

I've never been one to wait, to tell the truth. The time stretches by like winter after a groundhog sees his shadow, but at last, the actresses are dismissed, water flowing into their mouths from bottles of Poland Springs and sweat wiped across their faces. I am speechless. The pristine perfection of a second ago is gone, and in its place is the harsh reality: these women are actresses, struggling young actresses with rough apartments in this shady area of the city. And for some of them, acting isn't so much a passion as it is a whim, a desire to find some way to shine, a wild stab in the dark.

For _her_, I know, it is a destiny.

"Hey," she says, sidling up beside me. "I'm Maureen."

"Joanne," I reply. "I'm – I'm Joanne. Jefferson. I see you in the mornings." I say this because it is true, and because I know – I _think_ – that a star like her could never remember the likes of me, a lawyer with money but no goals in life like hers.

She smiles. "I know," she tells me, and like any good actress, she keeps my gaze while she talks. "I'm there, you know. When you see me in the mornings."

I blush and neglect to share my reasoning, because she would either scoff it off or consider me a stalker. Either way, I'm screwed, so I keep my mouth shut until I can think of something better to say. When an idea does come to me, I say, "You did really well."

She laughs. "Really?"

"Yeah. I loved the part where you were, um, dancing."

With a smile, she points out, "I was dancing the whole time."

My cheeks now resembling cranberry sauce, I mumble, "With the, um, with the twirling."

She snickers. "The tango?"

"That's the one," I confirm. The truth is, I've known how to tango since I was nineteen. But she doesn't need to know that. Sometimes it's good to let _them _act like they know everything. An ego boost can go a long way when it comes to getting a date.

She extends her hand to me. "You wanna go get some lunch?"

"My lunch hour ended – I mean, _will _end in an hour," I answer, lying through my teeth. She knows it too, but I don't think she cares.

"So…?"

I take her hand. "Sure," I say, and we head for the nearest diner – the Moondance, a secret love of mine. I know that I will be paying for this, and possibly for any dates to come, but I don't care. Is this a date?

I am not entirely sure until she kisses me.


	7. Mimi

_December 24, 1989_

In my haste to escape the stifling presence of that asshole Roger, a flyer catches my eye.

That's all it is, really; some struggling performance artist is protesting something – the flyer says "Save Our Homes," so I infer that she was fucking her landlord and suddenly he turned into an asshole. Or, more plausibly, she got sick of him, dumped him, and had to pay rent. I can relate. _My _landlord… well, let's not go there. Free rent relies on my smuggling myself into his apartment late at night, breath bated every time a door creaks. Terrified that his wife will walk in, I have to make myself practically invisible.

Invisible? Me. Ha! I can't walk down the street without being _ogled_.

So this flyer ends up literally _flying _into my face, and as I peel it off of my face, I examine it. Maureen Johnson. _Over The Moon_. In tiny print on the bottom, it thanks Mark Cohen, who I am fairly certain lives in my building. It's a common name, but I'm pretty sure that his is the name it says on the broken buzzer for – what floor? Oh, god. It's Roger's apartment, isn't it?

Wait, so that ties in this actress to a man who ties in with Roger, who ties into me.

What is this, six fucking degrees of seperation? I just need something to do.

It's decided. I'm going. It's three hours from now, which gives me time, but time isn't really something I want right now. I want to have fun. I want to run somewhere far, and from Christopher and Bleeker – the place where I always buy groceries, because they are so cheap here that I can spend three bucks on food for a week (which isn't saying much, considering stereotypes of dancers like myself, but I'm _not _anorexic, I'm _not_) – the Eleventh Street lot is pretty far. I set off at a run, the flyer balled up in my hand.

When I get there, oh, god, _perfect_. As if I weren't exhilirated enough from having run all that way, I meet the eyes of _him_. My dealer. I don't know his name, nor he mine, though he calls me "Kid" and sometimes asks if he should be carding me. I tell him to go fuck himself, and he watches me as I pass, my hips swaying. Of course, this is not what happens now. _Now_, I silently approach him and extend my hand expectantly. "Hey," I mutter, unfazed by the passing policemen who have eyes only for the donuts clasped in their gloved hands.

"Hey," he growls back to me. "You're flushed. Just fucked?"

I just hand him the money. He can be perverted, but he is, in his own way, almost friendly. Certainly friendlier than – oh, fuck.

It's Roger, of course. I grumble something and try to make my exit, the packet of heroin warming my hands, but of course this obsessive-compulsive asshole will hear none of it. "Hey," he says, and I respond identically. He looks put out, and I want to push past him and leave, but he insists upon having a conversation. Before I know it, well, yes, he transforms into the Artist Extraordinaire that I knew he was when I first met him. His cigarette puffs smoke out at me, his attitude glaring at me from his eyeliner, but I don't mind. He's cute. He's hot. He's _sexy_. And he's kind of sweet. Certainly more sweet than Benny is. God. _Benny_.

Then comes his offer, for a date. I accept, because I assume I won't have to pay, and that means preserving more of my three-dollar groceries. Besides, it's hard to look away from his eyes and his half-smile. So I let him lead me into the room, some big performance space with an elevated platform and a crowd of people – some cops, some homeless people in their tents that are trying to block out the noise, and a good deal of deliberate viewers.

I'm not really a big fan of art. Sure, I like to dance, but the rest of it can be boring. Some amateur actress normally wouldn't appeal to me, except I know about motives, and I know that if she has a purpose, if this is a _protest_, it isn't art: it's self-expression. That, I have no problem with. That, I can get into, because with every kick and twirl I do over at the Catscratch, I'm lashing out at everyone. Mama and the others from back home, Benny and the others who have treated me like a whore, and assholes like Roger who pretend to want romance when they really want sex.

Wait, what am I thinking?

But my thoughts are interrupted, because a low growling roar of a motorcycle jolts me out of my pondering. All of a sudden, too-bright lights are in my eyes, blinding me temporarily. This is Maureen. This is the artist. This is the girl who gets cops and groupies and – is that Benny back there? Well, just fuck all. He comes to see me at the Catscratch, too, just to grab my ass and try to pull me into the crowd so he can screw me against the wall.

Again, I stop thinking, because suddenly there is a story onstage. It's cheap, and it's bad – a tale of a spoon and a cow and a bulldog. But jumping over the moon? I want to do that sometimes, too. Not to reach my dreams, because I don't have any; I want to jump over the moon to achieve ecstacy and utter joy. I want that perfect moment of the cold needle, of the hot liquid pouring through my veins, and oh _god_, I just can't focus now, can I? Fuck. Roger's going to want me to meet her later, and I'll have to say something. That was good? No, no. I can relate?

As it turns out, I don't meet her until we are at the Life Café, Roger and Collins and Angel and I. Angel keeps an arm on my shoulder, and I am comforted as snow pours into my hair and looks like dandruff. I hope Roger knows what it is, because dandruff is just gross, and on dark hair it looks even more fucked up.

It is a quick meeting, my introduction to Maureen, because everyone is being shoved into the doors of the Life Café. We are freezing and we want the lukewarm environment, its temperature cranked up by everyone's presence and the fact that, as Roger warns me, "there _will _be table-dancing." I laugh, but I have had my fair share of table-dancing in the past, and I know how amazing it can be. Better than sex, because boyfriends are fine, but friends are on a completely different level.

"Hi," I say to Maureen as we all squeeze into the tight entrance of the restaurant. "I'm Mimi."

She nods to me, almost curtly, certainly distractedly, before she double-takes and sees Roger's arm around me. I guess she didn't expect to see Roger with a girl. Well, I know how she feels. I didn't expect to see Roger with a girl after the way he yelled at me, and I sure didn't expect that that girl would be me. But I just blush as Maureen laughs. "Hi," she replies. "I'm Maureen. You're Roger's girl? Good luck."

I laugh. Roger punches her, but I just laugh.

"Talented _and_ funny," I tease. "Ditzy?"

Roger snorts. "Oh, very," he assures me. "I knew her all through high school, believe me."

So as it turns out, my distraction is not so strong after all, because by the end of the evening, I have a new friend, and each of us is wearing the other's shoes as we walk to our respective apartments tonight.


	8. Angel

_December 24, 1989_

Well, I would never come here by myself. Not because I don't care about protests or "save our homes," but because amateur art bothers me most of the time. So though I don't mind Collins' assurances that "she's really great, Angel, you'll see," I have my doubts. After all, the flyers are not particularly impressive, and Mimi's here, just being dragged along by her new flavor-of-the-week, Roger. Then there's Mark, who won't keep his eyes off the stage, even though it's empty right now, and keeps mumbling something about a tango. I don't know what that's about.

"Maureen is Mark's ex," Roger hisses to me. I grin knowingly. That explains it. Of course. She dumped him, probably after having been with Roger at some point. And that girl up there, the one handling the cables and lighting, is probably Maureen's new one, because Mark shoots her jealous looks. Poor kid.

Then Maureen comes out, with blaring motorcycle lights blinding me. I blink through them, follow her with my eyes as she skids over to the stage. Well. She's one of _those _girls. Roger grins at her, Mark sulks, and Mimi makes soft comments about her good choice in footwear. I just watch, entirely open-minded as one of the few people in the room devoid of attraction to her, along with Collins.

After, I am applauding and cheering with everyone else, beating police officers away and making sure none of my friends, new or not, gets harmed by this stupid riot. As this happens, Maureen watches from the stage, trying to mask her fear by feigning amusement and desperation. She isn't desperate to stop the riot, she's scared that it might hurt her career. Scared that her friends might get hurt. I see human emotion in her eyes, and I am thankful, because if I didn't, I might think that she was robotic. I watch her for a moment before getting distracted again as a cop tries to snag Mark's camera. I kick him you-know-where and shiver, hoping my skirt is long enough for him to not know that he could do the same to me.

Maureen is amused, yes, but she's also worried. I offer up my hand to help her down, and she accepts. "Hi," I say as her feet hit the ground and she leans back on me to steady herself. "I'm Angel."

She smiles. "I know who you are. You're Collins' girlfriend."

I beam. Wow. She may be the first one to call me someone's "girlfriend" immediately after meeting me, and knowing as she does that her friend Collins is gay. Very good. "In the flesh," I reply, but break away from her momentarily to kick away a certain policeman who attempts to get his hands on Collins. I kick him, I push him, and I turn swiftly back to Maureen. "Hi," I say brightly.

With a laugh, she takes my hand. "C'mon," she says, and looks around to all her other friends as well. "Let's go over to the Life."

Collins grumbles. "We go there almost every night," he protests.

"Good," says Maureen, and releases my hand for just long enough to lay a hand on Collins' shoulder. "Listen to the princess," she instructs playfully.

He snorts. "If anyone were a princess, it'd be Angel here," he drawls. I beam. "Oh," he says to Maureen, "have you met Angel? She, ah, she met me on the street after I got mugged. Saved me."

I blush. "It was nothing," I tell them, and daintily step over an unconscious body on the ground. Maureen and I both double-take, however, and review the face, making sure it is not familiar. "Should we…"

"No," Maureen says decisively. "It's a fucking yuppie. I can tell. See the hat?" she asks, gesturing to the hat beside the man. "Don't. He was just here to be an asshole."

It's been awhile since I've been around someone who swears quite as much as Maureen does, and it is new for me, but I'm far from sheltered, and I can swear with the best of them if I need to or feel the urge to do so.

"Bet he was," Collins grunts, and I feel no need to elaborate. Rather, I turn to the girl tagging along with us.

"Hi," I say, but she appears to not notice me. Joanne, I remember. Her name is Joanne.

Collins looks at me. "You want to run ahead?" he asks. I shrug, and we are off, leaving Maureen to make out with her girlfriend and Collins to sweep me into his arms.

God, he is so _sweet_.

"Are you planning on carrying me for three avenues?" I tease.

He laughs. "Yes," he replies cheekily, and strokes my hair. "You're so cute, Angel."

"Nothing compared to you," I say, and lean up to kiss his lips.

Sure enough, I remain in his arms for the three avenues before we arrive at the Life, and he sets me down on my feet. "So," he says, "what did you think of Maureen?"

I shrug. "She's fine."

"Fine?"

"She's definitely something," I say.

Collins laughs. He echoes, "Definitely something."


End file.
